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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830089">a writer's apartment in the LES</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom'>the_most_beautiful_broom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - The Holiday (2006) Fusion, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Los Angeles, M/M, New York City, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:35:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830089</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Julie suggests to the house swap because she desperately needs to get out of New York (and the man who'll never love her enough to stop using her).<br/>Alex agrees to the house swap because he doesn't recognize the life he has in Los Angeles (and the man he thought he loved).<br/>In each other's houses and on opposite coasts, they'll learn to open their hearts again, be gentler to themselves, and maybe discover a Christmas miracle.<br/>// or a JATP + The Holiday AU</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alex/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Julie Molina/Luke Patterson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>164</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a writer's apartment in the LES</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Technically, he’s not her ex, because technically, they never put a label on things. They hooked up, and it was great, but not so great that Nick didn’t want to keep an open relationship, and Julie had enough self esteem to call it, so they went back to being coworkers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nick had adjusted just fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julie...Julie’s in the corner of the New York Times’ holiday party, smiling with her teeth every time someone tells her that they absolutely loved the last piece she wrote, a Gatsby-inspired wedding at the Prospect Park Boathouse, resolutely pretending to not be watching her ex across the room,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, not her ex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just Nick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A waiter appears next to her, a drink tray shimmering with new glasses, and Julie replaces the empty flute in her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She never meant to be the girl who fell in love with her coworker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She especially never meant to be the girl who gets her coworker, loses him, then continues to edit his abysmal work, genuinely excited when his shadow falls into the doorway every Thursday night before a Friday deadline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She melts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s been melting for three years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Nick keeps being promoted, Julie keeps blushing if he holds eye contact for more than three seconds, and Willie says it’s a vicious cycle, but Julie tells him it’s just because he hasn’t met the right pair of blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Willie’s her best friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They met when they were both broke post-grad, and shared a three-bedroom apartment with six other people. They’re come a long way in eight years, but their friendship endured, and Julie’s grateful for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Willie hasn’t entirely forgiven her yet for refusing to get over this crush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julie supposes it probably is a crush, since she hasn’t acted on it since their split, but she’s pretty sure it’s less pathetic to be staring through champagne at a company christmas party mourning unrequited love than an unrequited crush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s shocking that the Times still has a Christmas party; surely they’re more tolerant than this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, not only do they have one, attendance is mandatory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Julie squeezes herself into something sequined, spends the whole night annoyed that her hair gets caught in it, and smiles to herself when she overhears people complimenting Nick on his piece on Dolly Parton’s foundation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nick had been so desperate when he dropped the draft on her desk, stressed that the tone was just all off (it was), the descriptions weren’t gelling (they weren’t) and that Lessa wouldn’t like it (she wouldn’t), and Julie had calmly texted Willie that she couldn’t make dinner that night because she had some rewrites to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a masterpiece now; Julie’s proud of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wonders how long she’s contractually obligated to stay at this thing, and if, at the end of it, she’ll have consumed enough champagne to be able to take the subway home, or if she’ll need to bite the bullet and call a cab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Editor-in-Chief address should be late enough, right?</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Surely, once Lessa is done, Julie’s free to go?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, a hush descends over the party. The music quiets, conversations reach a rapid conclusion, and Lessa emerges at the top of a staircase, waving delicately. She clinks the back of her hand against the side of her champagne flute, the diamond dinging prettily against the glass, and the rest of the party dims, as the company turns towards their boss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“FIrst of all,” Lessa says warmly, “Merry Christmas, to each and every one of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone raises their glasses good-naturedly, mechanically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you all,” she continues, “for the effort each of you put in to make sure this holiday season is efficient and covered, so we can operate with a smaller staff over the next couple of weeks. I know the time and energy you expended to backlog your articles, and, pending a global crisis, we should be able to maintain that status.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Polite applause breaks out across the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>PTO requests were submitted months ago, the favorites chosen, the rest resigned to a holiday schedule, but Lessa is expecting, so Lessa will receive, applause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, before we rush off to holiday, I do have one more announcement to make. Julie?” the woman breaks off, squinting over the crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julie blinks; does Lessa mean her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple people look back at her, so she must; she waves a little to catch her boss’ attention from her corner in the back of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lessa beams. “Ah, Julie, there you are. I have some highly-coveted information that will affect your column.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julie smiles automatically, thinking how no one calls it a column now that they’re all online, and raises her glass. What could Lessa have to announce that could impact her antiquated weddings/socials section of the paper?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you, Julie,” Lessa continues, “to be the first to report on this particular union, as it’s between two of our dear colleagues and friends--Nick and Carrie!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Julie feels the smile freeze on her face as the room erupts polite applause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carrie, the financial advice columnist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carrie, the girl Nick slept with while she and he were just casual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carrie, who brushes her hair over her shoulder and she has a rock the size of Rhode Island on her ring finger and it sinks in that it’s not that Nick wasn’t ready to make things official, it’s that he wasn’t ready to make things official with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is with Carrie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julie remembers she’s supposed to be pleased for the insider scoop, not reeling with this new discovery, so her plastic smile stretches wider, and she spills some champagne as she joins the applause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lessa makes some more announcements, compliments are tossed around the room and Julie backs slowly towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t care if HR notices; she needs to not be in this room with a guy who broke her heart when it wasn’t even his to break, and then again, in front of all her peers and coworkers, while her final draft of his most recent article is still in her outbox. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing sounds worse than the subway right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s cold, but Julie pulls her coat tighter around her body, shoulders hunching as the wind whips through midtown Manhattan, and starts her trek towards the Lower East Side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes her an hour in the frozen wind, but Julie makes it down to her building, then up the five flights of stairs to her apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home sweet co-op.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kicks out of her shoes by the door, shedding her jacket and immediately replacing it with a blanket she yanks for the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pros of the small apartment life: it’s barely ten steps before she stumbles into bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cons: she’s pretty sure her neighbors can hear her crying through the thin walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex is an adult. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond that, he’s a successful adult. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s one of, if not the, best movie trailer producers in the industry, he owns a house in Beverly Hills without a mortgage, every A-List director in Hollywood knows his name, and they’re naming a new wing at Cedars Sinai after his most recent donation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet all that success and decency still isn’t enough to keep his boyfriend from sleeping with his secretary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s cliche and it’s ridiculous and Alex should be above it, but he absolutely isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan, of course, is denying everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He denies everything, even as Alex empties out their shared drawers, athletic shorts and cable knit sweaters, flying into the middle of the room. As he dumps everything of Ethan’s into a pile, Alex thinks now is probably the time when he should let it wash over him, break down over the fact that his partner had an affair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he feels as he always does, like there’s an empty, echoing cavern in his chest, and a tightening cut at the base of his throat, the esophageal spasm that’s recurring more often than not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fun little reminder of his anxiety, as if his partner tossing their entire relationship into the wind wouldn’t do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t sleep with her,” Ethan is insisting, in his southern drawl that three years ago, Alex had found so charming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex refuses to acknowledge the empty promise or the spasms, doesn’t stop in his stalking around their room, yanking drawers open and pulling half of their contents out. Trousers and socks fly over his shoulder and into the middle of the bedroom, and Alex doesn’t even look over his shoulder to see where they land. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your receptionist just happens to work till 3am?” he says, and several pairs of athletic shorts join the fray.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were all working late,” Ethan starts. “She just wanted to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turns quickly, not wanting the excuses. “I don’t care what she did or didn’t want, Ethan, I’m not going to blame someone else if my boyfriend can’t keep it in his pants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan glares at him, raking a hand through his hair. “I told you, I didn’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Swear on your life,” Alex interrupts. “Go ahead, swear on your life that you didn’t fuck your secretary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan opens his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But doesn’t say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scoffs, going back to the drawers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The awful part is that he knew this was coming. This is why he didn’t want to get married, this was why he didn’t want Ethan to give up his condo--but no, the other man had insisted they were ready for it, that being nervous was usual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve had problems for over a year, Alex,” Ethan says from somewhere behind him. “You don’t want to admit it, but we have, and you want to blame this on Amy--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me,” Alex mutters. “I’m not blaming a thing on Amy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe it wouldn’t have come to this, if you didn’t spend so much time working,” Ethan says, and Alex swears the ocean must be closer than two miles away, because he can hear the roar of it in his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare put this on me,” he says, turning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan crosses his arms. “Alex, you cut 76 trailers this year. You put a cutting room in our house, where--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My house,” Alex interrupts, not to be petty, but because Ethan has a lovely habit of calling Alex’s strengths theirs and his weaknesses his alone.  So the house is theirs, the workaholism is Alex’s; the Marc Berthier table is theirs, the cutting room in the guest house is Alex’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That cutting room has farmed out 76 trailers this year, paid for the guest house and the house, and the Marc Berthier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex straightens, looking around the room. “Speaking of which, I think it’s time for you to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan blinks. “Babe, are you serious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that, more than anything does it for Alex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like Ethan can’t believe that he would call it, that Alex isn’t begging for another chance. It’s like he thinks this, a wrecked room and a tightening in his chest, lies and mayhem, are the best he could hope for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And again, maybe now he should cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his throat clenches and his eyes are dry and he knows if he tries nothing will happen, so Alex steps over the pile in the middle of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to go for a drive,” he says, quietly. There’s no anger on his words, no vehemence, just exhaustion. “When I get back, your stuff is gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A handful of emotions flash across Ethan’s face, but then he lets them go, nods, and reaches for Alex as he walks by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ales turns his shoulders; Ethan’s hand glances through the air and Alex doesn’t look back as he strides out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>LA’s really no good for brooding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun’s out, it’s a gorgeous afternoon, the air cool but the sun warm, the perfect Southern California winter’s day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grabs his ray bans and keys from the table in the foyer, on autopilot as he slides behind the wheel of his car. He peels out of the driveway as soon as the gate opens far enough to allow for it, not heading any particular direction, thoughts too loud to turn on bluetooth over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And drives and drives, and when the sun starts to set and he thinks maybe he should head back, he keeps going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winds up on a cliff in Santa Monica, a park-and-look turnout for tourists to pull over to the side of the road and enjoy the view. It’s empty tonight, on account of it being so near the holidays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit, the holidays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that there’s a convenient time to find out a relationship has evaporated, but a week before Christmas is pretty near the top of the list for the least convenient.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex clicks a button on the console and the roof of the convertible recedes. When it’s clear he climbs around to the back of the car, feet on the backseat, sitting on the folded roof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The city sparkles beneath him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now would be another time to cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing, just nothing and Alex frowns at the winking lights of the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell is he going to do for the holidays?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex braces himself on the driver’s seat, leaning over to pick it out of the drink holder in teh front seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Six missed calls, all Ethan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple texts from his production assistant, and a few more from his sound manager.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex taps the phone against the back of his hand, thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could handle this how he’s handled everything this year--more trailers, more work, more production, more projects. Crank out a couple projects when the rest of the industry is lagging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could also hypothetically give his team the week off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it crazy that he can’t remember the last time he gave seven consecutive days off?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What would they even do with a week?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Probably spend it with their families, he thinks. People who love them, and don’t sleep with their secretaries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cheery thought.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can talk himself out of it, Alex unlocks his phone, dialing one of two numbers he has memorized. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, are you okay??”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s probably not a great sign that Luke answers on the first ring, panic heavy on his voice.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sits up a little on the back of the car, making a face. “Yeah, I’m fine; hi, to you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke lets out an aggressive sigh that neither of their phones can handle; Alex pulls the phone away from his ear. When he brings it back, Luke it talking a mile a minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--and you know, I never hear from you, so when you just called I assumed--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Alex interrupts, ignoring the spasm resurging in his chest. “Look, I just called to ask a favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke stutters to a stop. “Sure, what’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think the team could use a week off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line is silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Luke laughs, the same laugh he’s had since they were kids together. “You’ve got a weird definition of a favor, bro.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grins, in spite of himself. “The favor is that I want you to be the one to let everyone know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, the laugh like they’re fourteen. “How come you don’t want to be the one to save Christmas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Alex looks over the city, the bright lights that mean full houses, with people in them, happy people. “I’ve got to get out of town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything good?” Luke asks it casually enough, but Alex hears the current of doubt underneath it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Alex says, too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not convinced,” Luke says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Alex squints down at the freeway, the cars filing in and out, in their standstill flow. “I pay you the big bucks to write music, not psychoanalyze me, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one’s got enough money to psychoanalyze you,” Luke retorts. “But, seriously. You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine,” Alex says, slow enough this time that Luke might believe him. “Just need to clear my head. Tell the office to have a good break, and we’ll hit this hard, right before New Years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“New Years is two weeks,” Luke says, suspiciously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about that,” Alex says calmly, waiting for it to sink in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two weeks it is, then,” Luke laughs, after a beat. “You got it. Travel safe, man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hang up without saying goodbye, they always have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex takes in a deep breath, lighter air filling his lungs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends the drive back to the house wondering what the hell he’s going to do with two weeks off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house is quiet when he gets back to it, quiet and dark like it should’ve been three hours ago, when he felt like brooding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, that means the keyboard seems especially loud as he types ‘where to take my anxiety-ridden, recently single, type A, capital A Alone self for Christmas’ into google.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First option is Bora Bora.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex already has a tan, so it’s not like he’s really craving a tropical escape...plus, what, is he going to ask for a kayak rental for one? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The resorts in the Caribbean feature stock photos with manic smiles from child actors, and it’s not that Alex has anything against kids, it’s just that he doesn’t need two weeks of being surrounded by reminders that he doesn’t have any.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all moot, because Alex is pretty sure he’s misplaced his passport, so he’s going to need to stay in the states anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s only so many cities in the US where Alex can actually envision himself for an extended period of time, even fewer that beat LA. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even fewer that he hasn’t been with Ethan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That crosses off New Orleans, Boston, Vegas, Charleston, Orlando, and basically anywhere in Hawaii...which leaves him with Seattle or New York. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Airbnb seems to be overbooked, this late in the game, but at this point, Alex is just looking for curiosity’s sake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seattle’s supposed to be raining for the next three months, so Alex types in ‘New York’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Disappointingly, half the apartments look like they could be in the Valley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s minimalist design and shiplap walls, but Alex has never understood the allure of taking a tiny NYC apartment and making it look like it’s anywhere else in the country.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when he sees a listing entitled “<strong>A</strong> <strong>Writer’s Apartment in the LES</strong>” with a cover picture of exposed brick walls and a truly fantastic record collection, he clicks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex is pretty sure his master bedroom is larger than the whole of this apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floors are covered with bright rugs, a neon sign hangs in the living room/kitchen/entryway for a band from the 90s, and plants cover every inch of available window space. The wallpaper in the bathroom is a horrendous rococo era print, but the deep tub looks pretty awesome. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The description reads, “If you want to live like a local instead of lounging in a penthouse uptown, then my apartment is for you. I’m not going to sugar coat it--it’s small. Like, really small. You have to flush the toilet twice, and there’s no garbage disposal, but the windows are pretty soundproof, and it’s a pre-war building. There’s no elevator, which you’d think would be obvious from the whole ‘pre-war’ thing, but I’ve gotten a lot of angry DMs about it, so just being upfront. The building is home to a lot of artists, so there’s almost always going to be something going on. It’s not for everybody, but if you’re open to it, it can be a haven. It has been for me. Make yourself at home--there’s a moka pot on the stove, a ton of shaggy blankets, and a pretty awesome vinyl collection, if I do say so myself...but if you break any of my records, I will take legal action, airbnb’s legal team be damned.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex laughs to himself, appreciating the candor of the apartment owner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This couldn’t be farther from the sprawling aesthetic of his own house, but looks like exactly the kind of place he can disappear for two weeks. No one will know him. He’ll live in this shoebox of an apartment, emerging to wander around frozen Manhattan, maybe risk a bodega coffee or two, and live in absolute obscurity.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pricing is fair, nothing exorbitant, and he could book it on the spot, but he doesn’t want to assume. Sometimes people forget to close their bookings over the holidays, and the last thing he wants to do is rent someone’s house out from under them on Christmas. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicks the icon in the corner of the screen that says ‘Talk to this renter!’; a chat bubble pops up. Alex squints at the icon in the corner; the renter is someone named Julie, with hair like a pantene commercial and dimples. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he dictates as he types, trying to remember if the NYC&gt;LA time difference is three or four hours. “Sorry for the late-ish message; is your place available for the holidays? I saw it listed, but didn’t want to assume...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The message sends with a quiet notification sound, and Alex drums his fingers on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s pretty sure it’s three hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that late in New York, but it is a work night, so maybe she’s out and about. Or doesn’t have notifications on her phone. Or doesn’t--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His computer beeps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Julie types. “Not too late, don’t worry. So my apartment’s only available for a home exchange; not sure if that’s a thing you’re interested in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sits back from the computer, thinking that over. “Is that as self-explanatory as it sounds?” he types back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The typing bubble appears and disappears, and Alex wonders if he’s going to get a rapid string of messages, or one giant one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the former.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haha. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, from what I can tell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some of my friends have done it; I haven’t yet. Basically we’d switch everything--houses, cars (I’ll leave my metro card on the table for ya), coffee makers, whatever else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex purses his lips. The ever-present voice in his head tells him it’s too good to be true, that it’s clearly a front for identity theft, but he pushes it down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sound pretty trusting, for a New Yorker,” he types instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lol,” Julie types. “Just a special breed of desperate, around the holidays.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can relate,” Alex responds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chat is quiet for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I’m Julie, by the way,” Julie types. “And since you haven’t exited the chat yet, I’m guessing you’re at least somewhat curious at the prospect of switching.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex,” Alex says. “And, yeah. Who doesn’t want to live out the irl version of the Vanessa Hudgens Cinematic Universe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julie sends back a laughing emoji, which Alex is pretty sure you can’t do on a laptop, so she must be on her phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Alex types, after a moment. “I could really use an escape for the holidays. I know East Coasters have a thing about green Christmases, but if you’re game to swap Manhattan for LA, I’m down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aagin, the rapidly appearing and disappearing typing icon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“SHUT UP ARE YOU KIDDING???</span>
</p><p>
  <span>YOU’RE IN CALIFORNIA??</span>
</p><p>
  <span>ABSOLUTELY YES PLEASE!!!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, I should be more rational. But as long as it’s not an RV, I’m so down. Anything that’s three thousand miles west of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex laughs to himself, looking around the room. Leather couches, state of the art entertainment system, stuff that won’t hit the shelves till next year’s black Friday deals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not an RV,” he types. “Promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blessed,” Julie types. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex can’t believe he’s actually considering this, actually entertaining the thought of turning the keys of his house over to a stranger, to live in a dorm-room sized apartment on the other side of the country for two weeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan would freak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glares at his reflection on the computer screen; who cares what Ethan thinks. Their relationship has been over for months, if Ethan is to be believed, and even if he isn’t. This isn’t about him. It’s about Alex, and having time away from a partner and away from work, time to just listen to himself without wanting to pull out all his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe New York will be louder than even himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One question,” Alex types.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shoot,” Julie sends back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that stereotype true--that there’s no men in NYC?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ellipsis appears, then disappears, and Alex appreciates that this time, Julie is trying to censor herself. “You trying to meet someone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The opposite,” Alex responds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then come on down,” Julie sends immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He actually has a ton more questions, but he’s got the skeleton of a plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s going to New York. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’ll go ice skating in central park, maybe have a hot chocolate at Tiffany’s. Maybe he’ll go on a bookstore crawl, maybe he’ll just stand for hours in front of the Rockefeller tree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s so many possibilities and even more things to worry about, but for now, Alex has a vacation to plan and a flight to book, and that’s all that he’s going to focus on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey friends! this is my first time writing for this fandom, just wanted to drop this and see if this is something I should continue/if it's what y'all like! lemme know your thoughts ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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